Dear Diary (An Alternate Version)

Dear Diary

-Introduction-

The kids pack into the taupe minivan as I chat with Mrs. Felani, a fellow blonde soccer mom, who lives at the end of Rain Street around the corner.

“The weather will be spectacular for a camping trip!” Mrs. Felani exclaims, her voice ebullient.

“Yes, it sure will,” I say. “Too bad I can’t join you!”

I try my best to sound disappointed.

Today, like most days, Mrs. Felani wears Hudson jeans two sizes too small and Manolo heels two inches too tall for her age. She also wears that same indigo v-neck I see her in every morning when she struts around the neighborhood on her embarrassing power walks, waving to all the neighbors.

And don’t even get me started on her new pageboy haircut.

She must have gotten that from her husband’s blind barber, I figure.

“I love your haircut!” I gush.

“Why, thank you, Rebecca!” she beams.

Bless her heart.

“Bye, everyone,” I say, with a smile plastered to my face. “Take lots of pictures!”

Not like I’ll look at any of them.

I watch Mrs. Felani drive away in her too-old taupe minivan, crammed with screaming neighborhood kids, as they head off to their weekend campout in the Utah backwoods. My two kids, Carlton and Sarabelle, sit in the backseat, but they don’t wave back.

I keep waving and smiling until the minivan rounds the corner. Then, once it’s out of sight, I stop.

I go back inside and glimpse my reflection in the full-length mirror in the foyer—the one I bought from Barney’s, the real one, in New York. I look dapper and delicious today in my black and white ruffled, polka-dot apron and matching black oven mitt. Thanks to Dr. Hopper, my smile is so white, it blinds people, just like the sparkly Rolex around my wrist and the pink-gold Cartier diamonds around my neck. My smile could easily grace the cover of Dental Weekly or Happy Homemakers, or whatever other ridiculous magazines are in circulation that I pretend to know about when the other mothers mention them at those joyless ladies’ luncheons.

My face hurts from smiling. I flip off my black oven mitt and toss my apron somewhere, not caring where it lands. No kids all weekend. No more husband. Finally. Just me and the teacup Pomeranian.

Where is Bentley?

I’ll look for him later. Now, it’s time to journal.

I climb the 12 white-carpeted steps to the second floor, round the corner at the top of the balcony, enter one of the spare bedrooms—the one we almost converted into a nursery before the—um—miscarriage, and I pull out my old diary from one of the boxes on the top closet shelf.

I blow off the ring of dust on the cover and flip it open to the first blank page I see.

Dr. Evans told me to journal more. “Vent those frustrations,” he said. “Get them out. Release them like the toxins they are.”

I nodded back, “Yes,” I said. “A journal is a lovely idea.”

I pull out my black pen with the faux feather tip, and I write:

~ Friday, November 23 ~

Dear Diary,

Today is the first time I’ve written in years. Dr. E says I need to process my emotions and deal with them in healthier ways. I need to process my feelings about a friend, Mrs. Dahl—Mary Dahl.

Whatever I say needs to stay here in this journal, away from nosy children’s eyes. I’ll have to keep this diary in a safe place where no one will find it. Maybe I’ll even buy a lock and a little key for it.

I’m a bit grumpy today because I only slept six hours last night. I stayed up past midnight packing the children’s suitcases for their camping trips. I wanted to make sure little Carlton and Sarabelle had just the right clothing and accessories—raincoats, umbrellas, fuzzy socks and slippers, tweezers, homemade crustless turkey sandwiches, canteens, and all that other camping junk they need to survive for three days in the wild.

Why do people go camping? It’s a bit masochistic, really—sleeping in a nylon tent in the wilderness while god-knows-what man-eating creatures await them in the dark.

My blood sugar is low, too. Dr. E warned me about becoming “hangry.”

“Look out for becoming hungry, angry, lonely, and tired,” he said, enunciating his words a little too dramatically for my liking, but he made his point.

“People are more vulnerable and prone to overreact when they feel any of these things,” he said. “When we feel more vulnerable, we’re more likely to act out in destructive ways.”

But Mary Dahl…where do I begin with Mary Dahl?

Mary Dahl seems so unhappy lately—probably because she has really started to show her age this past year. I saw her last month on her 40th birthday, and I couldn’t believe those crow’s feet!

“I heard she can no longer afford Botox,” Mrs. Vick whispered to me at the party after Mary stepped out of the room.

I furrowed my brows, drew my hand to my mouth, and feigned my most concerned expression. “Oh, how sad!”

She nodded.

Mary’s eyes were swollen and rimmed with unsightly bags that looked like dark, ugly pillows on an ivory sofa.

I didn’t dare tell her she looked like her octogenarian mother.

By 8:00, she was ready to call it a night.

“I have to wake up early tomorrow,” she said, yawning. “I’ll have to save the cake for when I have the energy to eat it.”

But we all knew she was going to break into it the minute we left. She would devour three or four pieces in one sitting, then lie and tell everyone she just had a refreshing glass of lemon water before bed. Then, if she gained 20 pounds overnight, she would shrug, forge her best bewildered expression, and say, “I haven’t a clue where this weight came from!”

Never mind that I spent four hours baking that cake with my own hands—I even threw out the first two cakes so I would get it just right. I invited Frank, the mailman, inside to sample it, too.

“It’s divine!” Frank said, his eyes delirious with joy. “Can I have the leftovers if you have any?”

I smiled graciously and said, “Of course!”

Then, this morning, Mary threw a tantrum at the neighborhood watch meeting because little Trisha got rejected for the lead in the school play. I didn’t dare tell Mary that it’s probably because little Trisha doesn’t exactly shine on stage, with that portly little body, wire-rimmed glasses, and stuttering problem.

I kept my voice calm and reassuring, then said, “Perhaps Trisha would like to play one of the reindeer instead?” I pat her on the back for moral support.

“One of the reindeer?!” Mary snapped. “You must be joking. You think I should let my child play the fucking reindeer?”

She was a bit dramatic, I thought. I smiled gently, but exchanged ‘knowing’ glances with the other mothers when she turned her head. Mrs. Felani flashed a wan smile and rolled her eyes at Mary.

“Well, Mary,” Mrs. Felani said, sounding calm, “there are still characters that haven’t been cast yet. Have you thought about having Trisha try out for another role?”

Mary sniffled as she sat on the couch, hunching forward and holding her head in her hands. “A tissue, please?” she asked, reaching blindly toward the spot where no one was standing. She sniffled, sounding pitiful and defeated, then blew her nose with unmitigated force.

At least I was thoughtful enough not to tell her that Trisha probably didn’t land the role because she lacks talent and because she has a singing voice that could sink a Carnival cruise ship.

Of course, I would never tell her that to her face because I’m too loyal of a friend. I would never tell her that her child is untalented, just like I would never tell her that her pies taste like cardboard or that her housekeeping looks like the work of a blind madwoman.

I would never dare.

But people do pity her. That’s evident with all the random men who volunteer to clean her carpet and unclog her sinks and toilets for free—ew—and fix broken things in her garage.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a random handyman said just the other day while he was driving by. “Want me to come over and take a look at that garage door? It looks a little rusty.”

Of course, Mary just flashed him her most helpless look. Then, the next thing I heard, they were sharing chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of Chianti—at his place.

The pity is also evident in the placating voices of her friends, who try to reassure her and pat her back when she cries about her runaway Chihuahua, the poetry contest she lost last summer, or all the hardships she has endured as a single mother.

I’m a single mother now, too, but nobody sees me wallowing in self-pity on my sofa.

But, it does get tiring, hearing everyone gushing, Oh, poor Mary, this, and poor Mary, that. The woman is 40--hardly a child. When will people stop trying to rescue her?

But poor little Mary sure knows how to get men to flirt with her—but it certainly isn’t because of her looks. It must be out of pity. Why else?

“She isn’t even that pretty,” Mrs. Felani said to me in a hushed tone once over brunch.

I nodded, leaned in, and said, “Not to be mean, but if I can be honest here? She doesn’t have much charisma, either.” I paused. “Or, any discernible skills or talents.”

Mrs. Felani nodded, looking thoughtful. “She needs to face reality.”

“I wish there was something we could do to help,” I said, sighing.

Then, this morning at the neighborhood watch meeting, she insisted, “We need more security guards in the neighborhood to patrol the streets at night.”

No, we don’t.

I kindly reminded her, “But, Mary, we already have six security guards who work around the clock, and this neighborhood goes dark by 9:00 p.m.”

She glared at me, but I continued. “Plus, there isn’t much excitement around here anyway,” I laughed. Some of the other women chuckled. “Do we really need all that security?”

“Yeah,” Mrs. Davis chimed in, “We haven’t had a robbery in seven years. Plus, no one does anything adventurous around here, unless you count the drugs that Mr. and Mrs. Lankton’s son is clearly doing.”

I nodded. “Yes. Rumor has it, he’s moving out.”

“Thank god,” a woman I had never seen before muttered from the back row.

The other women nodded in unison and folded their arms, satisfied.

Mary also feels compelled to broadcast her charitable work all over social media, telling everyone how she works around the clock volunteering at soup kitchens and raising money for the Salvation Army.

At least four times a day, her posts roll through on social media: “Today, I DONATED to my FAVORITE CHARITY!!” or “Just another day working in the SOUP KITCHEN!!! Upvote if you like this post!!! ”

Desperate isn’t even the word.

Everyone donates to charity. Even I bake muffins every other weekend to donate to those poor little orphans we’re always hearing about in the commercials.

What does Mary want? A gold star for effort? A hero cookie? Where is my fucking cookie?!

Then, I remember Dr. E’s words: “Get it out.”

And so I scribble furiously into the diary, filling up page after page after page.

One afternoon at lunch, I confided in Mrs. Felani, “This is difficult to say, but I think Mary volunteers because she wants to feel special.” I paused, sighing. “And I think she wants to feel special because--well, she knows she isn’t special. I know that sounds harsh, but…”

But, Mrs. Felani nodded vigorously, leaning forward.

“Mary could develop some skills, too,” I told Mrs. Felani. “I mean, surely she is good at something? Maybe she would be happier if she could channel her self-pity into a more worthwhile endeavor.”

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Felani said, nodding.

What I don’t tell Mrs. Felani is that sometimes, I want to smack Mary upside the head, or club her with one of my spiked, seven-inch Manolo Blahniks.

But I could never…

“I hear she’s a closeted alcoholic, too,” Mrs. Felani whispered one evening over our lemon waters at San Sebastian cafe.

I gaped at her in horror.

“Once,” she continued, “I caught her chugging gin straight from the bottle after she put Trisha to bed. Pretty hard core, huh?”

I nodded, hungry for more. “What else?”

“I think she drinks a lot,” Mrs. Felani admitted. “But, you can’t tell anyone.”

I patted her hand with reassurance. “Of course not,” I promised. “I would never.”

That’s just the kind of friend I am. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too soft.

But if I’m being honest, some days, I think I wouldn’t be too devastated if I heard someone got her drunk, slipped her a roofie, drove her out to a rural area, and accidentally left her at the edge of a cliff.

Other days, I admit, I wouldn’t cry too hard if I heard she bought herself a bottle of Tanqueray, and a bottle of pills—or even a sharp object—and finally ended her own misery.

Oops. Nighty-night.

I mean, who would miss her, really?

Mary is a hypocrite, too. She goes to church every Sunday, opens her Bible, and sings along to the church songs. But, her best friends know that, after church, she goes home and hits the bottle, and she can’t read much of anything—including the Bible—and when she’s at church, she’s really only lip-syncing to the songs.

Sure, we all have our faults. I mean, sometimes, I do too much for people—always baking—sometimes up to 100 cookies per week. I attend Bible study every Sunday, pick up the neighbors’ kids from school, babysit, and bake them sugar-free chocolate cookies.

But Mary must be so tired of pretending. She must be so tired of the lies.

But I won’t lie. Some days, I think about going the extra mile and doing the world a favor and hitting up someone on the dark web and hiring myself a little ‘help.’ I’ve read Internet articles about guys who do that sort of thing—offering their help for hire. It’s an act of public service, really. You just pay one of them from a secret bank account, tell them what to do, and they do their best to help you out.

I’ve even learned about Bitcoin and Monero and other ways to pay these guys. Fascinating stuff.

Really, if I did go that route—and I’m not saying that I would—I’d be doing Mary a favor.

I’d be doing us all a favor...